


wanna hear a true story

by AliuIce0814



Series: Frank Castle's SHIELDverse [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Punisher (Comics)
Genre: Agoraphobia, Child Death, F/M, Father's Day, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, SHIELD Is A Porn Studio, background Natasha/all of her boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 17:46:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11213073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliuIce0814/pseuds/AliuIce0814
Summary: Father's Day is not a good holiday for everyone. Frank Castle knows that firsthand.Set in Not_You's She Who Must Be Obeyed 'verse.





	wanna hear a true story

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LittleBird20](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleBird20/gifts), [Not_You](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_You/gifts).
  * Inspired by [She Who Must Be Obeyed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1263391) by [Not_You](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_You/pseuds/Not_You). 



> Warning for violence, both in scenes and implied; porn (SHIELD is a porn studio/sex toy seller/home to some kinky motherfuckers); past child abuse; past child death; mental illness; and Frank Castle being Frank Castle. 
> 
> If you haven't read Not_You's She Who Must Be Obeyed 'verse, you'll be confused! Also, if you haven't read tainted hearts, which is the prequel to this story, you'll be even more confused.

            If Frank’s hair weren’t buzzed short, it would have frizzed up the moment he stepped outside into the unseasonably muggy June morning. High of 89, the radio said when Frank woke up. Right now, as he walks the three blocks from his apartment complex to the bus stop, it feels pretty close to that already. He’s going to sweat like a goddamn pig in the studio. At least he’ll be mostly naked.

            Frank’s got his hands in his pockets and his head down, so he hears the clicking sound before he sees what’s making it. The sharp, repetitive noise sounds like 2 AM study sessions in a stuffy seminary library or the kids yelling gleefully as someone with a stick made their way down the hall to Frank’s old apartment.

            Sure enough, the person who’s walking toward Frank now has a white cane tapping a path along the sidewalk. And red glasses too, but that’s not unusual for someone who’s blind, right?

            Then Frank takes in the ruddy brown hair. The stubble. The carefully buttoned suit. The mouth that curls up into an almost-smile. Frank stops dead as Matt Murdock moves steadily toward him.

            Frank’s mouth goes dry. Sweat drips the length of his spine in the too-bright sunlight. Used to be, Matt could recognize Frank just by the sound of his breathing. He said he could hear his heartbeat, too, but Frank never figured out if he was just fucking with him. Frank holds very still. He keeps his breaths small and shallow. It’s been a few years. Maybe Matt doesn’t know the sound of his breathing anymore.

            The tap-tap of Matt’s cane stops abruptly. He’s still walking forward the way he did in college: somehow sensing his way around obstacles without needing any help. Frank can’t see Matt’s eyes beneath his glasses, but he knows, as Matt stops beside him, that they’re flickering back and forth. Matt’s brow furrows. He wets his lips. “Frank?”

            The city bus roars past them, belching diesel smoke. Frank lurches after it. When he reaches the bus stop, he’s soaked in sweat.

            “Hot day, isn’t it?” the driver says as he checks Frank’s bus pass. Frank doesn’t say a damn thing. He pushes his way to the back of the shaking bus and drops into a sticky seat. He heaves in hot, thick air. Cars and buildings flash past him, but he still sees Matt pausing beside him, one hand off his cane as if he’s going to reach out and touch him.

#

          The studio is barely cooler than outside when Frank gets there. “The AC went out last night,” Phil tells him at the door. This is the first time Frank’s ever seen him without his suit jacket. He’s even got his shirt sleeves rolled up past his elbows. “The air’s back on, but it’ll take a while to circulate. We had to close the daycare for the day.”

          Frank grunts an affirmative. “But I still have to work?”

         “Unless you’d rather go home.”

          “He wouldn’t,” Clint’s cheerful voice calls. He emerges from the break room shirtless and covered in black grease. He bumps Frank with his shoulder. Frank imagines twelve different ways to knock him out but settles for scowling at him instead. Clint grins. “He’s too excited for me to take pretty pictures of him being Dommed by Tasha. Right, Miss?” he says.

            Natasha pokes her head out of the break room and raises her eyebrow. “You know, someday you’re going to run your mouth to somebody who really packs a punch. Oh, wait.” She nods toward Frank.

            Clint shrugs. “Worth it. Hey, is Bruce still shirtless in there?”

            Natasha looks at him sternly. “He won’t be now. Stop embarrassing him. Oh, Frank, Bruce is here. Come say hi.”

           Frank frowns. He knows exactly three things about Bruce: one, Natasha owns him; two, his last name is Banner; and three, he’s almost as agoraphobic as Joan, though his phobia apparently has more to do with his own anger issues than with fear of other people. Not exactly the kind of person he wants to talk to first thing in the morning. Not that he wants to talk to anyone. Natasha raises her eyebrows at him. He gets the sense that she’ll kick his ass during their scene today. He sighs and listens to her, following her into the blessedly cold break room.

            Clint pushes past them to sling his arm around the hunched shoulders of a man with salt-and-pepper curls. Bruce ducks his head until he’s peering at Clint over his wire-rimmed glasses. When Clint kisses his cheek, he squeezes his eyes shut, and his mouth curls into the tiniest smile. “’Sup, Lovemonster? Get it all fixed?” Bruce nods. “Good job. Whatcha make us for lunch?”

            “Curry,” Bruce says quietly, eyes still shut. “Going to make lemonade for us now.”           

            When Frank gets over to Natasha and her boys, Bruce’s eyes are open again. He only comes up to Frank’s chin. He doesn’t quite make eye contact as he shakes Frank’s outstretched hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Bruce says in a soft, even voice. His hands are marked with scars.

            “You too,” Frank says, letting go.

            “Would you like some curry?”

            “Sure, but I’m not sharing what I brought.”

            Clint groans. “Come on, man. Your girlfriend’s cookies are the best.”

            “She’s not my—I mean—fuck off.” Frank rubs the back of his neck. He can feel the heat rolling off of it. Natasha and Clint both crack up. Frank scowls. But he can picture the heart-shaped note tucked into the paper bag he brought with him:

            _Dear Frank,_

_I hope you’re having a good day at work! Make sure to put ice on anything that hurts. I’ll see you later?_

_I made you sugar cookies with homemade raspberry drizzle icing. <3_

_Joan_

            Frank always hesitates over the little crooked heart Joan draws on the notes she sends with her baked goods. She’s friendly, making him food, asking him about his day, but he hasn’t made a move. He remembers this tight feeling in his throat from when he and Maria were dancing around each other in Afghanistan, and he hates it. Maria was supposed to be it for him. He got the best goddamn woman in the world, and he lost her, and that’s supposed to be it.

            Frank jumps when he hears Clint’s loud voice. “Do you need any help with that lemonade, Bruce?”

            “It’s all ready,” Bruce says. “You might want it to let it cool, though.” He perches on the edge of the chair closest to the door. Frank gets the sense from his tense muscles that he’s ready to run. Bruce only relaxes when Natasha squeezes the back of his neck. He leans into her touch.

            Glasses clatter against the Formica counter as Clint pours drinks. “You get lemonade, you get lemonade, everybody gets lemonade!”

            “Thanks, Oprah,” Bruce says. Natasha kisses his curls as she passes him a glass.  

            “Have a drink,” she says to Frank. “Not too much, though. I’m choking you today.”

            Frank blinks. “Great.” He takes a quick drink of lemonade. Everyone else’s chatter washes over him as he waits for work to start. When he finishes his first glass, he doesn’t reach for more; he doesn’t want to take any lemonade away from the others, especially since Tasha and her boys were digging around in the air conditioning in this godawful heat. But Bruce shuffles over with the jug of lemonade and pours him some more. He’s still not making eye contact. Frank clears his throat. “Uh, thanks.”

            Bruce flinches. “Huh? Oh, it’s nothing. Really. I’m the reason they eat something other than takeout every night.”

            “Damn straight,” Clint says. “That’s why we love you.”  Bruce ducks his head, that funny little smile on his lips again. “So what are we getting Papa Bear for Father’s Day, huh? There are some great ‘Best Dad’ shirts at Wal-Mart.”

  
            “I don’t think Nick will appreciate that,” Bruce says. Frank can’t focus on his words anymore. Of course. It’s hot, it’s June, of course it’s almost Father’s Day. That’s why he always used to get pelted with water balloons first thing in the morning before anyone would even bring him appreciative pancakes. Frank swipes condensation off his lemonade glass with his thumb.

            “So, Frank,” Phil asks, swallowing his drink. “How’s Joan doing?”

            Frank scowls at his lemonade. If Phil weren’t his boss, Frank would tell him to keep Joan’s name out of his mouth. But Phil’s his boss. Frank clears his throat. “Good.”

            “What’d she bake you this time?”

            “Sugar cookies. Raspberry icing.” Frank holds up his lunch bag. Clint says ‘awww’ and then makes several fart noises in a row. Phil swats the back of his head. Bruce leans over and whispers something in Natasha’s ear. “Hey,” Frank says, scowling. “Want to share with the class?”

            Bruce cringes away from Natasha. “Sorry.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I was, uh. I was asking Natasha if Joan is your Miss.”

            Instinct makes Frank want to say “No,” to snap, to close off the conversation. That would work with Natasha or Clint or Phil. But something about the way Bruce is curled in on himself reminds him of some of the kids he came across when he was doing his first tour: cringing, scared, always braced for a hit. Bruce is Frank’s age, maybe older, but Frank can’t bring himself to kick the guy while he’s down. He stares down at his paper bag. The raspberry-iced cookies inside are small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. He could crush them easily. What if Joan fed him them, piece by piece, fingers on his lips? “She just takes care of me,” Frank says.

            When he looks up, Clint and Natasha are smirking. Even Phil’s got a smile playing around his lips. Frank scowls at all of them. Then he catches Bruce’s eye, jerks his head toward the Three Stooges over there, and rolls his eyes. Bruce rolls his eyes back.

            Frank hands him a cookie on his way to the set. “Hey,” Clint protests. Frank knocks into him as he walks past.

#

            Red-tipped nails dig into Frank’s throat. He tips his head back. He’s not sure if he’s trying to escape the pain or arch into it. His lips part. He doesn’t groan because he’s a Marine, dammit, he knows how to feel pain and pleasure without making a sound. The nails bite into his skin until he’s sure they’re about to draw blood. Natasha leans closer, closer, until scarlet lips brush his. “Give it up, Frank,” she orders, voice flat like she doesn’t give a damn. Like she’s bored. The next time she speaks, she digs her nails into Frank’s throat with each word. “Give. It. Up.”

            The moan tears its way from Frank. He pushes his neck into Natasha’s grip, shuddering. The world narrows to that pain and pressure.

            “Cut,” Clint calls. “We got it.” Immediately, Natasha releases Frank. He collapses back onto the mat. Her fingers brush over his sore neck before she straightens up. Frank inhales deeply, giving in to the way his muscles tremble for a good minute. The short-lived weakness isn’t as embarrassing as it was six months ago, when he first got this job. It helps that he’s seen everyone from Clint to Phil in a similarly compromising position. He lets himself shake it out while he waits for someone, probably Natasha, to give him ice-cold water.

           “What are we getting you for Father’s Day, Castle?” Clint asks.

            Frank freezes. “What?”

           “C’mon, aside from Nick you’re the most dad-ly looking guy I know. Not quite peak dad, but definitely DILF? Y’know, the guy you don’t want to open the door when you go to pick up your first girlfriend for a date. ‘If you hurt my baby girl, I’ll bust your kneecaps,’” Clint says, voice pitched low in a rough imitation of Frank’s. Frank’s heart pounds double-time in his chest. He stands slowly, swiping away Natasha’s hand when she reaches down to help him. Sweat plasters his hair to his scalp. “Or,” Clint continues. “Or, picture this: Frank the prom chaperone. Seriously, you’d be that guy in the back with his arms crossed, just waiting to bounce some guy who’s grinding on the girls a little too much. You know it’s true! C’mon, don’t look so grumpy. You’ll scare your imaginary kids.”

            Frank moves faster than he’s had reason to in years. He bursts into the empty break room and slams the door behind him. The whole wall shudders. His chest heaves. He grabs his t-shirt off a chair and tugs his over his head. The chair clatters to the linoleum floor. Frank stares at it for a second, ears buzzing. Then he grabs the chair next to it and flips that one, too. It bangs against the table on its way down. He kicks the next chair over, throws the one after that into the wall. The refrigerator rattles. Frank snatches the empty lemonade pitcher off the counter and throws it to the ground, but it doesn’t shatter. Fucking plastic. “Fuck,” Frank says, voice echoing. “Fuck!” He slams his fist into the cabinet, but it doesn’t hurt. He grabs the cabinet door and slams it again and again, spilling plates onto the floor, until the hinges snap. He flings the broken door across the room. It skids on the floor and bounces off the wall. Frank’s heart rattles against his ribs.

            “Frank,” Natasha says sharply. Frank whips around and finds her staring at him. Fucking staring. Just stands there, back straight, eyes cold, not moving, not scared. Frank wants to gets right into her space. His trigger finger jumps.

            Then, suddenly, thick hands are on his chest, pushing him slowly but purposefully back. “Go, Miss,” Bruce says, hands still splayed across Frank’s chest. His dark eyes are wide behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “I’ve got this, I promise, I can talk him down,” he repeats when she hesitates. Frank grabs Bruce’s wrists. Bruce’s face contorts, but he doesn’t try to pull away. “Frank, let go. You don’t want to hurt me.” The guy’s face is red, but he still isn’t fighting Frank. That’s enough to make Frank let go, backing away. Blood roars in his ears. His heart’s going too fast. He’s burning with sweat. He can’t think. Bruce puts up his hands in surrender. “I can talk him down. I know what’s wrong. Let me help him.”

            Natasha gives Frank the coldest look he’s ever seen on her before she gently touches Bruce’s shoulder. “Five minutes.”

            “Ten,” Bruce says. He’s still got his eyes fixed on Frank. Frank laughs again, tasting blood. His fists are so tight that his knuckles are white. “Please.”

            Natasha huffs. “Ten. I’m trusting you, Bruce. I’m trusting you, Frank.” She levels that cold, blank stare at Frank again. His wild laughter dies away.

            The door clicks shut behind her. Bruce stands there, hands still up, dropping eye contact and then making it again. “Frank, talk to me. Let me help. What’s wrong?”

            “Shut up,” Frank growls.

            “I just want to help.”

            “I don’t need your help.” Frank steps closer, right into Bruce’s space. His heart pounds in his chest and ears and fists. “Mind your own goddamn business!”

            “I just want to help you.”

            “You wanna feel good about yourself?” Frank’s yelling, he’s spitting, he can see it hitting Bruce’s face and glasses. “You wanna play fuckin’ hero? You don’t even know me. You don’t know anything.” Frank raises his hand, ready to hit the bullshit right out of Bruce’s mouth.

            Bruce shoves Frank so hard that Frank staggers into the table. The edge of it cuts into his back just below his kidneys. The breath lurches out of him. Bruce yells wordlessly. His face transforms, twisted by rage. When he bares his teeth, he hardly looks human. “No,” he snarls. “I’ve been hit by big men before. No.”

            Frank grits his teeth. He wants to throw Bruce against the wall, but Bruce’s expression is so wild that he looks like the bloody-faced Marines Frank fought alongside in Afghanistan. “You terrify me,” Bruce says, hands balled into fists. “And Natasha promised me you wouldn’t. I want to trust her.” Bruce’s whole body shudders. He closes his eyes. His chest heaves. Frank gets the feeling that with every choked inhale and exhale, Bruce is fighting to regain control of whatever animal self he’s got packed away. Frank digs his blunt nails into his palms.

             Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. “I followed you here to help, not to fight,” he says tightly. “I thought maybe—maybe I knew what triggered you.”

            “I ain’t crazy,” Frank snaps.

            “Father’s Day,” Bruce says. He trembles. “I thought Father’s Day set you off.”

            Frank scoffs. “Why would that bother me?” His pulse thrums in his ears.

            Bruce rubs his face. When he opens his eyes, he looks directly at Frank. “My father killed my mother. He beat me, and he killed my mother, and when I got older and we fought, I accidentally killed him.”

            Frank stares. “Christ.”

            Bruce wets his lips. “It was brutal. My whole childhood was brutal. And while I—I probably would have been mentally ill anyway, it, uh, it didn’t help.” Bruce drops his gaze. “I don’t do Father’s Day. It makes me remember. I don’t flash back as much as I used to, but—that sure does it.” He wrings his hands. “I don’t know you. I don’t know anything about you. But I know Natasha cares about you, and I recognized the look on your face. I know trauma when I see it. So I thought—I don’t like to see people hurt.” Bruce grimaces. “You might not believe me now, but it’s true. I wouldn’t have put myself in this situation with you if I thought you were being terrible for the sake of being terrible.”

            Frank’s trigger finger twitches. Bruce’s hair is a mess of salt-and-pepper curls. He’s broad but short—Frank knew a kid who was built like that, a five-year-old who always lost wrestling matches with his big sister. Frank can see little fluffy-haired Bruce with some shithead dad beating him until he became this vulnerable, raging man. Frank bites back a growl.

            Bruce presses his back against the wall, eyes wide. He looks down at his feet. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry, I know I’m a problem, I’ll go—”

            “Somebody shot my kids. They’re dead.”

            Bruce’s head snaps up. He makes a sound like Frank’s punched the breath out of him again. “Oh, no.”

            “And.” Frank swallows. His hands shake. “My wife.”

            Bruce takes off his glasses. He untucks his button-down shirt and wipes the lenses clean with a corner of the cloth. “I thought that might be it,” he says quietly. “That something had happened. I hoped not. But I thought.”

            Suddenly, the ground’s too shaky to hold Frank. He sits on the table and covers his face with his hand. “Shit,” he says. “I’m a fucking Marine, I’m violent, that’s how I am. Always have been, even when I thought I’d be a priest. But not. Not with them.” It’s so important, somehow, to make Bruce know that. Frank wipes drops of sweat from his face. “Not my kids.” He looks straight at Bruce, trying to soften the hard lines he knows are on his face the way he does when he talks to Joan. The way he did when he talked to the kids. “They were, uh. They were.” His throat’s closing on him. He tries to inhale without his breath whistling.

          “You don’t have to tell me,” Bruce says. He takes off his glasses and folds them, the arms clacking. He tucks them in his breast pocket. “That’s not what I wanted at all. I mean—if you need to—if you need to talk, I’ll listen. I’m not that kind of doctor, but I’m, uh, pretty good at listening.”

              Frank shakes his head. “It’s okay. You did enough,” he says roughly.

             Bruce ducks his head and nods. “I don’t talk about what happened to me.”

            “Me neither.”

             “I’m sorry.”

             “So’m I.”

            “You won’t get fired,” Bruce says. “Natasha’s seen far worse from me. All of them have.” Frank shakes his head. Bruce heaves a breath. “You okay for me to leave you for a minute? I’ll stay if you need me to, but if not, I should get Natasha. She said ten minutes, and I, uh, I’m pretty sure it’s been more.”

            Frank keeps his mouth shut. He’s talked enough already. The door creaks when Bruce opens it. Frank can’t remember if it did that before or if he broke it. The break room’s a wreck. Frank drags himself to his feet and resets all of the chairs. He gathers all of the plates he dropped and dumps them in the sink, setting Bruce’s plastic lemonade pitcher on top. He can’t fit the cabinet door where it belongs, it needs new hinges, so he carefully rests it on the counter. His heart beats so loud that he almost doesn’t hear Phil knock on the door frame.

            “Frank,” Phil says. His voice is unbelievably gentle.

            “Banner tell you?” Frank rasps. Phil nods. “Then you know why I ain’t had work in years.”

            “We’ve been through a lot of trauma here,” Phil says, voice still gentle. “Clint’s fairly open about his own. I hear Bruce told you about himself?” Frank nods. “Clint’s situation was similar.”

            “I know he wasn’t trying to be an asshole,” Frank mumbles.

            “Good.”

            “Frank,” Natasha says. She strides straight to him and grabs his jaw. Her fingernails dig into his skin. He grits his teeth and lets her grip him tight. Just as soon as she’s caught him, though, she releases him and steps back. “How long do you need?”

            Frank squints at her. “What?”

            “You’ll have this week, of course,” Phil says. “Through Monday, to give you time to recover. Will you need more time than that?”

            “What?”

            “Go home,” Natasha says. “Eat. Sleep. Don’t hurt anyone else or yourself. But first let us know what day you’ll be ready to come back to work.”

            Frank shakes his head. He feels like he’s got water in his ears. “What d’you mean, come back?”

            “Castle, we have five shoots together lined up. We have work to do, and I expect you to come back to it.” Natasha steps into his space again and rests her hand on his face. She only digs in her claws a little this time. “My boys have a million different problems and handle them in a million ways they shouldn’t. I’m angry that you wanted to hurt Bruce, but I also know you. If I didn’t trust you, I wouldn’t work with you. So go home. Cool off. Let yourself feel grief in a healthy way. Weird concept, I know. And then come back.”

            Frank looks away from Natasha’s piercing gaze. “Don’t pay me for today.”

            “Of course we’ll pay you,” Phil says.

            “I don’t need pity—”

            Natasha scoffs. “If I were pitying you, you would know it. Take the money you earned and go.”

            Frank scrubs his hands through his hair. “I’ll be back Monday—”

            “Tuesday,” Phil and Natasha both say. They usher him outside into the blinding sun. The heat radiating off the blacktop is enough to churn Frank’s stomach. When the door clicks shut behind him, it cuts off the last traces of air conditioning.

#

             Frank makes sure to knock loudly on Joan’s apartment door. Sometimes she’s in the bedroom, curled beneath blankets, or in the kitchen with the fan on, or cleaning the bathroom with her music cranked up. “Frank?” Joan calls.

             Frank’s pulse jumps. “Yes,” he says.

            “Oh, you’re early! I’m making dinner. Come in!”

             Frank disables all of the traps Joan had him build for her as he makes his way into the living room. Something’s popping on the kitchen stove. He makes sure to reset all of the traps before he heads into the kitchen. Joan’s flipping over two chicken breasts, but she takes her eyes off of them long enough to look over Frank. She raises her eyebrows at his feet and clears her throat. Frank glances down and notices his shoes. He grimaces. “Sorry.” He catches himself just before the word “Miss” slips out of his mouth. It’s just because he’s been at work all day, he tells himself as he trudges back to the entryway and toes off his shoes. He picks up Joan’s flats and tucks them inside his shoes. She likes them that way. Something about it being neater and safer. Less of a chance of tripping. Frank’s stomach clenches every time he sees her tiny shoes burrowed into his own huge boots.

            “I hope you’re all right with chicken,” Joan says when he pads back into the kitchen.

             “Always all right with anything you make,” Frank says. “Smells good.” Even though his stomach’s still burning.

            “You’re early,” Joan repeats. She’s got her hair pulled back in a ponytail, but loose strands stick to her face. She peers up at Frank. “What’s wrong?”

            Frank shrugs. “Nothing.”

            “Okay,” Joan says. She turns back to her chicken, brow furrowed. Frank shuffles his feet. He flinches when Joan flicks off the stove and pulls the half-cooked chicken off the burner. “No, not okay.” She turns to face him, dark eyes wide. “Frank, you look horrible. I’m sorry, I know that’s not nice, but it’s true. You look—you look hurt. Did they hurt you at work?” Her voice is still small, but there’s an edge to it Frank hasn’t heard before. “I know that’s what you do for work, but you don’t usually look upset.” Her eyes travel up and down his body. One of her little hands reaches out and lifts Frank’s hand up to her eye level. “Your knuckles are split! Go sit down.”

            “I’m fine,” Frank protests.

            “Go. On the couch. I’ll get the first aid kit. I think I still have Band-Aids.” Joan flaps her hands at him. “Just let me wash up.”

            “Really, you don’t gotta do this. I’m okay.”

            “Sit,” Joan says. Frank backs up and drops down onto the squeaky couch. Joan flits into the bathroom. The water runs for a good minute before she comes back with the first aid kit. She sets it on the coffee table and sits beside Frank, feet curled beneath her. “Is anything else hurt? Your stomach? Your ribs?”

            Frank’s back twinges where it hit the table. “Nothing. I’m fine. Joan, stop.”

            “Then what’s wrong?” Joan frets. She pauses in her frantic digging through the first aid kit.

            “Nothing!” Frank snaps. His voice cracks, this ungodly sound he hasn’t made since he was about fifteen. Joan cringes, folding herself smaller, away from him. Just like Bruce did before. Frank’s chest clenches. “Nothing,” he says, making his voice softer. He tries to shrink down to Joan’s size. The couch groans beneath him. “Had to leave work early. Have the rest of the week off. But it’s nothing. I’m fine.”

            When Joan speaks again, her voice is tiny. “Tell me.” Frank shakes his head. She catches his face in her hands and holds on tight. Her nails are bitten so short that they don’t touch his skin at all. “Please. I know something’s wrong, and you’re not telling me. Let me help you, sweetheart.”

            “You can’t. It’s my fault.”

             Joan frowns. “What is?”

             “Everything.” Frank’s voice bursts out of him, too loud for the room, too loud for small Joan holding his face so gently. He can’t fucking stand it. “I told her to take them. I told her to run. I fucked up. I made the wrong call. And they’re all dead.”

            “Who?” Joan’s eyes are huge. Frank shakes his head. His throat and eyes burn. Joan rubs her thumbs along his cheekbones, and it’s too goddamn much. He sucks in air so he won’t cry. “Frank, please tell me. Please, sweet boy. You were alone for so long. I know you were.”

            Frank squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to see Joan’s expression when he rips himself open and lets his whole awful history spill out. “I was—I was married. Before.” It’s sacrilege to say her name in another woman’s house, but he has to. Joan asked. “Maria,” he says. His stomach rolls. “Maria. Almost eight years together. And we had—” More sacrilege: two names he swore he’d never say again, but here they are, tumbling out of his mouth, and it hurts and he hates himself and God he missed saying their names. “Lisa. Junior. They were seven and five. They were so goddamn sweet, y’know? Everyone says their kids are good, but mine are. Were. They were, I’m telling you. Straight As, begged to be altar servers, always hugging somebody. And they just wanted to go through the park. I couldn’t tell them no. I’m a sucker. I couldn’t tell them no.”

            Joan’s cold fingers flutter against Frank’s cheeks. He can’t decide whether he should pull away or pitch forward against her. He holds himself still instead. “We were just getting Lee’s dress. First Communion. Was gonna look like a little bride. They always do. Broke my goddamn heart, let me tell you. She always did. And it was still light out. We were just cutting through the park, Central Park, y’know, because they’d been so good in the store and they were growing up too fast.” And now he just wants them to be grown up. Almost eleven and nine. “I let them run ahead. Because it was light out, and they were playing, and it was a good day. And then—she screams, just screams like she’s dying, and she doesn’t stop screaming when I pick her up—”

            Lisa’s skinny arms and legs all stiff, snot and tears on Frank’s shirt. The blue-faced corpse staring down at them from the tree.

            “It was a Mob hit. Sicilian Mafia. Hanged a guy right in the middle of the damn park. And we walked right into it.” Frank swipes his tongue over his cracked lips. “I told them to run. Told Maria to get out of there and call 911. I thought I had the best chance, y’know? Mafia’s nothing compared to Kandahar. I could hold them off. I thought they were behind us. But.” But. The firecracker explosion of gunfire. Maria screaming, shrieking, voice breaking for Junior, and then silence. Frank’s heart in his throat, blood in his ears, mobster blood on his hands. Lisa’s pink shoes flashing. “Maria and Junior, they were, they were, there wasn’t, I couldn’t do anything for them. But Lisa, I thought, it was, I could hear her crying.” It’s like he’s possessed. He can’t stop the words from spilling out. “They cut her open. My little girl. They cut her open. I was holding her together with her brand-new dress and she still—” Blood-soaked fabric going cold and heavy in his hand. Turning his head aside to vomit so Lisa’s blank eyes couldn’t see him. Police sirens. The ambulance. Black bags around bodies like Frank’s whole goddamn family was just trash.

            Joan’s tiny hands are clammy against Frank’s face. He swallows and swallows but still tastes bile. “Frank,” she whispers. He gives up. He falls forward against her. She can’t take his weight, and he hates himself for it, but he can’t stay upright. All he can smell is Lisa’s blood. Joan gasps when Frank’s weight hits her. Her slender arms come around him and cradle him. “Frank,” she says again. One of her hands comes up to cup the back of his head. “Oh, Frank.” She’s shivering, but not as hard as Frank, shaking so much that he can’t stop tears from spilling down his face. “Honey,” Joan says so gently that Frank has to fight to breathe. “It’s not your fault.”

               Frank laughs. It’s a horrible sound. “Weren’t you listening?”

              “I was,” Joan protests. She strokes the back of his neck, his shoulders, the small of his back. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. You’re so good. I know you were a good daddy. You’re always so gentle with me, I can tell, I can see how you must have been with them. It’s not your fault.”

              Frank presses his face against the crook of Joan’s neck. He’s sweating and shaking, and she smells like lavender shampoo. Her gentle hands flutter over his back, rubbing soothing circles. He opens his eyes and stares at the hem of her blue shirt. If he speaks, he’ll cry or be sick all over her. He’s huge compared to her, massive, a monster. But she cradles him close. It feels like Natasha digging her sharp nails into his neck. He lets himself be weak for one more goddamn second and grabs a fistful of Joan’s hem. His hand’s almost as broad as her chest. His nose is still clogged with Lisa’s blood.

             “You’re good,” Joan croons. “You’re good. Sweet boy, you love them so much, I know you do.” Frank swallows hard. Joan tips his chin up with one finger until he makes eye contact with her. He wants to squeeze his eyes shut again when he sees her too-pale face, but he’s not a coward. He nods. “You do. Oh, I know. You’re a good dad. Thank you,” Joan says softly. “Thank you for telling me. I’m so sorry, Frank. I really am.”

             Sorry means nothing. Pity means nothing. Frank hates it, hate how false it usually sounds, hates how true it sounds coming from sweet, shivering Joan when she’s holding him like a child. He sits up. Joan’s face flushes. When she tries to scoot away on the couch, Frank’s stomach churns. He catches her hand and tries not to hold on too tight. “Can I.” He swallows. He won’t be sick. 

              Joan looks down at where their hands connect and then up into Frank’s face again. “What do you need, sweet boy?”

             The words knock the breath out of Frank. He wants to preface what he says next by telling Joan that he’s not coming onto her, and he’s not, really, but it would still feel like a lie because hearing her say ‘sweet boy’ just makes him want to drop to his knees. “Can I hold you? Please. Or, uh, give you a hug, or—”

              Joan lunges into his arms. She’s so strong for someone so small, at least like this, hugging Frank like he hasn’t been hugged in years. He wraps his arms around her, practically swallowing her up, and that’s better; he’s keeping her safe.

             “This is my proof that you were a good dad,” Joan mumbles into Frank’s chest. “And a good husband. You’re so good at hugging when you want to be.”

              Frank thinks about holding Maria at night, her hair tumbling across his chest. He remembers lifting weights with the kids, one in each arm in that fabric shop, Lisa and Junior shrieking and giggling and clinging on tight, trusting him not to let them down. He chokes on one more sob before he makes himself shut up.

#

              Joan hovers through the weekend. If Frank isn’t at her apartment, eating her food and helping put clean dishes in high cabinets, then she’s at his place, telling him stories about the kindergarteners she used to teach and learning how to build her own booby traps. She bakes and bakes, stuffing Frank full of lemon meringue pie and angel food cake. Each night, before she leaves, she pulls Frank into a hug. Her head barely hits his chest.

             “What will you do on Monday?” Joan asks on Sunday night. Frank’s sitting on the edge of her bed--boots off, of course, carefully placed by her front door--while she digs through her closet. She has an interview tomorrow for an assistant teacher position. She needs the money, she keeps saying, twirling her hair around her finger. And she does miss the kids. Every time she talks about it, she shakes a little bit.

              Frank catches the blouse she throws at him. It’s got little silk roses on it. He might die. “Dunno,” he says, setting the blouse on her bed and smoothing out the wrinkles.

              “You should do something,” Joan says, straightening up. She holds up a pair of black slacks and frowns. “Oh, why do I have to wear a belt with everything?”

              “You should eat more,” Frank says. “I pay attention, y’know.”

               Joan sighs. “I know. It’s just hard.” She refolds the slacks and disappears back into the closet. “You could clean out the top shelves here if you don’t have anything else to do. They get dusty.”

              “As fun as that sounds,” Frank says.

            “It was worth a try.”

            “If you need me to,” Frank adds quickly.

            “No, no, you don’t need to at all.” Joan re-emerges with khakis and a brown belt. She reaches out a hand. “Pass me my shirt and step out? I want to try this on all together and see if it looks all right.” Frank obeys, shutting the door behind him. Maybe Joan is short enough that she can’t see how red his ears are. “I just think,” she says, voice muffled by the door, “that you should have something to do. I worry. I’m sorry, I know that’s--” her belt buckle jingles-- “not helpful, but I do. I’m sorry I won’t be home tomorrow.”

            “Don’t worry about it,” Frank says. He clears his throat. “Thank you. For, uh.” He runs a hand over his hair. Needs to run the clippers through it again. He’s getting shaggy. “Keeping an eye on me. And listening.”

            “Of course. Frank.” Joan cracks the door open and peers out. Her worried brown eyes drag Frank right in. “I don’t like seeing you hurt. You’re so good.”

            Frank scoffs. Joan narrows her eyes. Frank blinks. He recognizes that stern look--that’s a Natasha look. He ducks his head. “Sorry.”

            “I just worry,” Joan says. “Here. Come in? Tell me how I look? I’m not sure.”

            Frank steps cautiously into Joan’s bedroom, hoping that the color’s faded from his ears. Joan stands in the middle of the room, arms at her sides, mouth a tight, straight line. “I had to roll up the pants,” she says. “Do they look okay? It’s so hard to find them in my size. And I haven’t worn the top in ages. I just don’t know. Does it go with the shoes?”

            Frank studies her: short-sleeved blouse that cinches at the waist, dotted with rosettes; khakis rolled up at the ends, not by much, though, just enough to look like they’re designed that way; brown flats that are only a little scuffed on the toes. It’s ridiculous--Frank has seen Maria in the little crop top she wore on beach vacations with those homemade jean shorts that barely covered her ass. He sees Natasha in nothing but stilettos every day at work. And yet Joan in her buttoned-up teacher uniform makes his mouth dry and his palms sweaty.

            “It’s silly,” Joan says. She tugs at the hem of her shirt. “It looks silly, doesn’t it? I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

            “No,” Frank says loudly. Joan jumps. Frank rubs the back of his head. “You look good.”

            Joan blinks. “Really?” She shuffles her feet.

            Frank nods. “Yeah. You look like a teacher.”

            “Not like a kid?”

            Frank doesn’t stare at where her blouse cinches in or at how the buttons line up along her chest. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t think about it, though. “Definitely not like a kid.”

            Joan beams. “Thank you. That makes me feel a lot better. Now shoo. I need to change out of these before I get them all wrinkly.” Frank heads for the door. “Wait,” Joan calls just as he’s about to close it. When he turns back, she’s got the top button of her blouse unbuttoned and her hands on her hips. She raises her eyebrows. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

            Frank shrugs. Joan crosses her arms over her chest. He’s not getting out of this one, Frank realizes. He rubs his face. “Uh.” When he knuckles his eyes, red spots swim in his vision. He thinks about a white cane and red glasses. He thinks about Lisa going toe-to-toe with a semipro boxer in their old living room. “Y’know, I think I’ll go see Matt.”

            Joan cocks her head. “Who’s that?”

            Frank shrugs. “I knew him. Before. In, uh, seminary school, actually. He’s a lawyer now.” Quietly, he adds, “The kids loved him.”

            Joan smiles. She goes on tiptoe to pat Frank’s cheek. “Good choice.”

#

            The one flaw in this plan, Frank thinks as he’s brewing extra-strong black coffee on Monday morning, is that there’s no way to know how long Matt’s been in town. Maybe he didn’t move here; maybe he was just in town for a conference or to see a friend. Maybe he needed to pick up records for a client. Maybe he’s still in the city, in Hell’s Kitchen, in which case Frank’s going to spend today dusting Joan’s top cabinets after all. He unlocks and locks his phone. Unlocks and locks it. Drinks a mug of coffee. Pours himself another.

            A text pops up: Joan. Frank swipes it open. _Good morning Frank, have you tried looking Matt up yet?? So worried about the interview. :( thank you for helping me with clothes though! <3_

It takes Frank a couple minutes to type a response. His thumbs are too wide for this phone. _youll do great. proud of you. & not yet_

 _DO IT,_ Joan replies immediately.

             Frank can just see her frustrated expression, nose all scrunched up, arms crossed. He sighs and opens Google. _matthew murdock lawyer address,_ he types. The first four results have the same address downtown. Frank runs a hand over his hair.

 _Finding Matt,_ he types to Joan. He ducks into the bathroom and gives himself a once-over. His hair’s still shaggy, but he knows himself well enough to admit that he’d use trimming it as an excuse to chicken out of seeing Matt. His shirt’s nice enough, one of the new ones he’s bought since he’s had the SHIELD gig. He shoves his phone in his back pocket. “Let’s go,” he tells himself. He makes sure to set all of his booby traps before he leaves his apartment.

            Today’s not quite as hot as last week was. Frank only drips a little sweat on his three-block walk to the bus stop. Since it’s not quite 10 AM, the bus is quiet and mostly empty. Frank rides it to the first downtown stop and gets off. He mostly knows his way around town by now. He’ll find what he’s looking for.

             Frank’s making his way through a tunnel formed by scaffolding when a new bronze plaque on the side of a brick office building catches his eye:

_Nelson & Murdock_

_Attorneys at Law_

            Frank’s trigger finger twitches. He feels it rasp against the calluses on his palm. Foggy Nelson, the loudmouthed dumbass Matt went through law school with?

            Frank takes the cramped office building stairs two at a time. The glass pane in the door rattles when Frank yanks the door open. A blonde woman sitting at the secretary’s desk looks up, eyes wide. “Can I help you?” she asks. One of her hands slips under her desk, probably reaching for a panic button.

             Frank straightens up and wipes his sweaty palms on his pants. “Ma’am,” he says. “Sorry for startling you. Is the Murdock who’s here—would that be Matt Murdock?”

             The woman frowns. “Yeah, that’s right.”

              “Is he with a client, or—”

              The door leading to the main office swings open. Frank tries to stand up straighter. He knows that the eyes behind those red glasses can’t see him, but Matt can sense things. Always could. Now, he’s got his head tilted to one side like he’s listening to Frank’s breathing. Maybe even his heartbeat. Frank knows enough to keep still while Matt considers him. He spends that time considering Matt: the suit, the glasses—a different pair, he realizes now, rounder than he remembers—the way he holds himself, straight, only loose in a practiced way. Frank clears his throat. “Matt.”

              Matt strides forward until he’s right in front of Frank. His hands come up and then hover right over Frank’s face. “Go ahead,” Frank says.

              As soon as Frank gives him permission, Matt’s callused fingers fly across his face. They slide down Frank’s nose, finding all the ridges from breaks: boxing matches, Afghanistan, Maria colliding with him in a too-small kitchen. They come up to ride along the furrows in Frank’s forehead. They catch on his ears and rub his buzzed-short hair. “Jesus,” Matt breathes. “Jesus.”

             Frank can’t help it. He laughs. “Watch your mouth, choir boy.”

             Matt’s breath rushes out of him like Frank gut-punched him. His fingers scramble at his glasses. When he drags them off, his cloudy eyes roam over Frank’s face. Each time he blinks, tears drip down his face. “Sorry,” he says, scrubbing at them. “Sorry.”

            Matt can’t see him, but Frank shakes his head anyway. “John,” he says, voice rough. “11: 35.”

            Matt’s blank eyes stare up at him. There are lines around them now that Frank doesn’t remember. But the way they crinkle at the edges when he smiles, that Frank remembers. It’s like being in the ring with him back in seminary school, all bloody and soaked with sweat and furiously happy. When he grabs Frank and drags him into a hug, Frank’s ready. He grips Matt tight.

 

**Author's Note:**

> John 11:35 - "Jesus wept."
> 
> Let me know if there are any grammatical/structural issues or if the pacing is off in some places. I raced to finish this before I lost wifi--I'm headed out of the country for a week but wanted to have this story out in time for Father's Day. 
> 
> So much gratitude to Not_You, as always, for letting me play in the best 'verse in the world.


End file.
